One Last Time
by Mitsima
Summary: Kubota and Matsumoto. There was definitely something between them at some point in time. But obviously...it didn't work out too well.


So there were books and there were people. There were people and there were books. And Kubota had a lot of books. Not exactly because he wanted them or collected them. But because he had to keep what was given to him by...  
  
//Goddammit stop being such a brat of a son and amuse yourself!//  
  
Yes, and so Kubota amused himself. With books, of course, so to avoid...  
  
//I get you books and you read them. If you don't, I swear I'll send you crashing down the stairs! //  
  
Granted, they were just threats. Threats that came with Christmas gifts and birthday gifts. All the time books. Never a sweater. Never music. Never a poster. Oh, and absolutely never a card or cake, God forbid.   
  
And why books?   
  
"The Great Works are teachers and guides in and of themselves. The wisdom of the ages spoken through ink."   
  
And so why hassle with the burden of parenthood?  
  
//Great Books have to be Great for a reason. Let them raise the kids. Or rather, the kid.//  
  
And so Kubota was just so raised. By books: silent and all-knowing, the great moralizers, demoralizers, and immoralizers, uncompassionate and stubborn.   
  
Can't argue with the ultimate Word on the matters of life. Can't argue with paper.   
  
The easiest hard way to bring up a child. Replace the influence of parents with the influence of books. Replace the influence of people with the influence of books. Then after a while, there really was no difference. Reading books and reading people. Faces and pages: skin and paper...both smooth surfaces with different contents.   
  
And so he treated people just he way he treated books: Read em' once then shelve em' forever. Gave people the same love books gave him: none. Never give. Never take.   
  
The easiest hard way to live life, but with a pack of cigarettes and a PS2, it was bearable if not pleasantly simple, painless and unproblematic.  
  
***  
  
Kubota's hands clutched and unclutched, feeling almost bereft as he sat at his desk absently staring at what was should have been in his grip but had just suddenly disappeared. The gentle 'thwap' created by the abruptly shut pages felt depriving, like a blanket torn away from him on a cold, snowy Saturday when the only thing he had planned to do that day was sleep in.   
  
He forgot to mark the page.  
  
"Don't tell me that you're going to spend Christmas with a book." Matsumoto brushed nonexistent dust particles off the paper cover and slipped it into his bag, casting a furtive glance at the gray dusk outside the school. "I'll return it to you later."  
  
"Mmmh." Which in Kubota's language meant a nicely murmured and courteous, "Fuck off." Though it was a bit half-hearted. Time and the persistence of another had softened him up a bit.   
  
Leaning back in his chair, Kubota tilted his head to gaze up at his partner and read his face. I'm here. Right here. So look at me. That's what Matsumoto's smile said. Possessive, not that Kubota was in any way surprised. He was getting used to seeing that expression. Only for him. Only when they were alone. It unnerved him at first, and it did still. Just a little.   
  
Then Matsumoto indulged himself, just a little, and took soft hold onto Kubota's chin, his eyes fixated on the lips that only he had the liberty to enjoy. Leaning forward, he stole the kiss only he was allowed to steal. 'Steal' because there was never any 'offering' on Kubota's part. Just 'letting.'  
  
No, Kubota wasn't a good kisser. Half responsive at his best, but there was really no room to be picky; especially if Matsumoto felt like a robber who had just broken into a cold house, empty save for a library. But one thing he did know: books and video games did little to warm someone up. And so he tried to do just that.   
  
Soft and slow butterfly kisses to start, just to get him used to the idea of being kissed. Let him breathe. Dry kisses down to the jawbone, slowly, slowly, lower, lower. Never demand and oh God, never force. A black eye is difficult to hide. Then keep at it until Kubota decides he wants more, but is too proud ask. One wet kiss and a nip to the neck. He stopped. Kubota's breath hitched.   
  
It was hard not to hide a smirk. Green light. Returning to the once still mouth, Matsumoto found a good welcome and deepened the kiss until their tongues met...   
  
But it didn't last long...never really did. Kubota pushed him back gently, trying to be polite and snatching up his pack of cigarettes.   
  
No deeper. Fine. Limits were limits.  
  
For a long time neither spoke; but when one of them did, it was Kubota.   
  
"It's snowing outside." he said casually, piercing through the awkward silence. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke towards the window instead of pointing.  
  
"So it is..."   
  
"Wanna do something?"   
  
A soft chuckle left his partner's mouth, but he sounded cynical. Couldn't help it. "But weren't we just doing something?"  
  
"So we were..." There was a thoughtful pause, and hint of guilt. "Still want to keep at it?" Though it was more of a rhetorical question, one not meant to be answered. Or if answered, never answered honestly. Apparently, Kubota had enough.   
  
"Nah." Matsumoto replied, a bit resigned, then grabbed his coat. "Might as well go out.   
There's a band playing in the park, I believe. You'll like it."   
  
It took Matsumoto ages to actually sort out Kubota's tastes, given that he never outright said anything about his preferences. He could only judge by how long the other boy's eyes stared at a poster, the lingering time spent looking at a certain magazine ad before flipping the page, a stray comment here and there...little things.   
  
Kubota paused, letting the offer for company sink in while taking a slow drag. "Why not?"   
  
Matsumoto had always prided himself in his ability to understand people. Call it a gift and the key to his popularity at the middle school. It was a science. People were equations that could be simplified and in the end, manipulated if need be. Such was the advantage of his presence in the EC. He silently thrived on that sense of power, fed and spoiled by the privileges bestowed upon him by his duty. But when it came to Kubota, he was stupefied beyond compare.   
  
It was like trying to analyze a thick book whose meaning fell completely on connotations. Nothing was ever obvious, and sometimes the harder he looked at him, the more confused he would get. And it was hard to bite back the disappointment.  
  
"Coming?" Kubota stood at the door, his head tilted quizzically to once side.   
  
"One step behind you, Makoto."   
  
***  
  
The walk to the park was only a few blocks, and the distant beat of the music rose clear in an otherwise quiet atmosphere. The sun was sinking, and Kubota was staring again. Another thing about Kubota: he liked nightfall. When the world was an infinite expanse of drab gray shadows while the sky remained starkly brilliant. Almost haughty for being the last thing to touch the sun before everything came under darkness. It always evoked a smile from him, though he had no reasoning to explain it.   
  
Matsumoto knew that it was basically useless to drag a conversation from his best friend at this point in the day. Any attempts would have been rewarded by aimless nods and vociferations of agreement although a question might have required just a little more elaboration. But if he were lucky, something greater than three syllables would pop out of Kubota's mouth in the boy's attempt to satiate Matsumoto's need for a decent response.   
  
Kubota was only down to his third cigarette that day. Which probably meant that he was in a rather good mood, though in no way oblivious to the other's growing anxiety. At the corner of his eye, he could see Matsumoto open his mouth to say something, only to produce an almost inaudible huff. The cold air fogged up the smaller boy's breath which in turn was quickly sucked in when he realized that he was being only too obvious.   
  
And so Kubota indulged him, keeping his gaze fixed at the tree-lined horizon and somehow smug in his realization that he had evaded being engulfed by a vortex of dramatic irony. Already knowing what Matsumoto was going to say should he gather up the gumption to say it, Kubota decided not to give him the opportunity lest it be something he didn't want to hear although theoretically...he had already heard.  
  
Experience taught him that to screw up Matsumoto's calculations, it was best to stick a variable with a funny symbol into the equation and tell him it was an inverse function of ...well...some other function he apparently didn't remember to write down. Or in layman's terms: throw a damn wrench into a machine that worked just too damn well.  
  
Matsumoto's mouth opened again; and he seemed determined this time, if not for...  
  
"Did you study for the entrance exams?"   
  
He paled, and Kubota's heartbeat resumed its normal pace. Mission... (tactlessly) accomplished. Sort of. Just like in those RPG's when you know you're fighting a losing battle and resign yourself to hitting the 'Run' option. Yes, humiliating. But if no one was there to watch, so be it.  
  
"Entrance exams?"  
  
"Yep. Pieces of paper with a lot of questions on them. Makes hair turn gray. Remember?"  
  
"I'm studying." replied Matsumoto, raising a suspicious brow. Kubota was normally more subtle. "What of it?"  
  
"Just asking."  
  
"Just. Asking." Right down to it, when something was not worth answering, the previous statement is almost always repeated, albeit with a twinge of annoyance.   
  
Shit. The little profanity sang clear in Kubota's mind, announcing his exit onto some disastrous road. It's like...the point before the point of no return. If he turned the page, all hell would break loose; all culminating like some sick Shakespearean tragedy...   
  
Matsumoto was just about ready to say...   
  
But if he refused to continue reading, nothing'll happen...  
  
Like a favorite game character bound to die. No escape. Just endless stalling. Don't press the up button because right when he steps through the door, some bolt of fire lightening plasma is going to fall from the sky and strike 'em dead. And no shitty angel litany's gonna revive him because it's just not the game's nature to cater to the player.  
  
Normally, a simple reset or a resigned 'I'll read this when I don't care what happens' would have put all at ease. But Matsumoto was flesh and blood. Kubota's lips still tingled, if not from the cold, then from the memory. Warm flesh. And not willing to be shelved without good reason.   
  
Fifth cigarette...half ash now. What the hell happened to the fourth? Gone two blocks ago.   
  
"Will you stay in the EC once we get to high school?" Kubota felt obligated to at least provide some kindling wood for discourse. Matsumoto was growing cold, and fast. "I heard you might enter the elections for student council."  
  
"Eh. Maybe, maybe not. It depends."  
  
"On what?" Another mental curse and another cigarette; another loophole. Kubota might as well just hand over the answer sheet for that damn equation. His walls were starting to crumble, and Matsumoto seemed less inclined to spare him this time. But a nearby shout that echoed Kubota's own mental berating shot through the quietness. The two of them stopped spinning circles around each other just long enough to notice an ensuing fight.  
  
"The fucking hell I'll back down you ugly bastards!!" the boy was seething with rage and the fight seemed like a highly uneven five to one. Nobody saw the two encroaching strangers.   
  
"Really, somebody needs to teach you to cool that head of yours." said one opponent.  
  
"A person ain't gonna live to long if he has a high blood pressure..." said another.  
  
Kubota heard the threatening sound of cracking knuckles, an advisory warning of what was to come. Game options: Fight. Magic. Item. Run.  
  
Fight. And it was so.  
  
Matsumoto softly nudged the transfixed Kubota. "Not our school. Not our responsibility. Come on."  
  
The fight was getting rougher now and the allotted victim was holding up pretty well. A right uppercut beneath the chin. A knee to the stomach. Two guys down. Three to go. It was almost as if the boy were enjoying it all, finding a certain vanity in that display of power. Kubota didn't move.   
  
"Didn't you hear me?" his partner whispered irritatingly. "Makoto..."   
  
Matsumoto made a move to leave him there when a strong grip caught his wrist.   
  
Hidden by shadows, Kubota automatically flinched in reaction to a punch the victim received in his gut. The tables were starting to turn in the fight. The feisty boy was getting tired and his pride seemed to be the only thing keeping him on his feet. His movements lagged, and each punch got weaker and weaker.   
  
"Makoto..." Matsumoto knew what he was thinking. It didn't take a real genius to notice when his friend was intrigued. The fact that he was licking his lips was a dead giveaway.   
  
The violence did it. Not the justice. Justice is what it is...justification.   
  
And Kubota liked violence. And Kubota liked the EC especially because of that. Instinct and reasoning all bundled up into one authoritative branch. The justice part was always secondary in his motives and probably wouldn't have been on the list at all if Matsumoto hadn't drilled it in his head thousands of times after thousands of fights.   
  
It wasn't as if he cared about anybody enough to protect them, but if Matsumoto cared about the weak, then it was Kubota's place to at least attempt. They were best friends after all.   
  
But the hypocrisy... no. That wasn't something he would merrily go along with.   
  
He threw the cigarette down, a sense of decision steeling his gaze as the smoldering ashes hissed violently upon contact with the layer of snow.   
  
"What's the matter? Don't want to get your hands dirty?" Kubota was taunting him now.   
  
Matsumoto tried to tighten his grip. If he lost this fight...  
  
"Like I said, Makoto, it's not our..." but the other roughly tore his hand away then nonchalantly adjusted his coat, not even attempting to hide his indifferent shrug.  
  
"Suit yourself." he called over his shoulder, walking forward while Matsumoto stayed behind.   
  
No farther? Fine. Limits were limits.  
  
***   
  
This sucked. This totally completely sucked all the way up to heaven and back. Put in a little detour to hell and that pretty much summed up the fucking suckiness of it all. Kicked to the ground like a fucking puppy and the best he could do was utter curses through a cut lip.   
  
Tokitoh hated, absolutely abhorred losing fights no matter what the odds. And he definitely, most positively hated being looked down upon. Just like they were looking down upon him now. The assholes. At least he could find pleasure in the fact that all of 'em, even the three left standing, would be really really sore when they woke up tomorrow. Not that he could say that he was excluded from that same fate.  
  
"Well well, it looks like we brought you down a peg or two tonight, Tokitoh..." the ringleader jeered as he rubbed his knuckles, preparing himself for what might just be the sweetest knock out ever performed during his middle school career. He probably would have been able to do it , if someone hadn't tapped on his shoulder.   
  
"Excuse me."  
  
"Fuck off, will ya? He's mine." the boy answered, eyeing Kubota suspiciously then hastily categorizing him as a non-threat. Not with that smile.   
  
"Mine?" Kubota could only laugh mirthlessly, and if looks could kill, he would have been thoroughly pulverized by the glare shot at him by the victim. 'Tokitoh' they said. "Really, that doesn't look too mutual to me."   
  
"Go to hell." was the leader's blunt reply, but with no time wasted, he was met with a solid fist to the face.  
  
Kubota chided his unconscious form, "Be nice." then hauling Tokitoh up, slapped him encouragingly him on the back. "Still alive?"  
  
"What the fuck? Who asked for your help?" spat the boy grudgingly.   
  
So much for gratitude.  
  
"Hm, and you were just playing wounded dog so that you could bite when they got near enough? Right. The "I'm-not-really-down-it-just-looks-like-it" trick. Works every time."  
  
"Are you mocking me?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
After a short while, the boy's cronies seemed to finally register the unwanted intrusion. Kubota analyzed the situation Two up. Three down. It was do-able. Totally. A little exercise wouldn't do him any harm either. Besides, even if he did want to walk out of this, it was a bit too late given that he was now seen as target number 2.  
  
"Yo." he nudged Tokitoh.  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"Left or right."   
  
The smaller boy eyed his opponents, and retorted arrogantly. "I usually take both."  
  
"Don't be greedy. Left or right." Kubota insisted quietly.  
  
A pause. "Right."  
  
The fight didn't last too long, but it was annoying. The two that were up, went down. Then the three that were down got up. Like one of those stupid carnival games. Enough of a distraction for both of them that Kubota didn't notice a sixth guy. But the glint of metal was enough of a giveaway that came a little too late.  
  
Tokitoh was busy pounding in some goon's face a bit of a distance away when someone came up on Kubota with blade. He distinctly remembered a blade. Yeah. A sharp one. Well, it must have been sharp. Hell of a stupid decision to attack a guy with a butter knife. Then whatever came next, came so fast that it was literally a blur. Snow...a lot of snow... everything was white, a flash of silver, someone colliding into him, a rip of cloth and the smell of blood. That was it, and there was Matsumoto, gripping his arm while standing protectively between him and the attacker (now out cold on the ground).   
  
Kubota could only stare stupidly at his best friend. It was the first time he had stared at anyone stupidly, because whatever had just been done was a very stupid thing to do. He hadn't expected it. And apparently, it looked like Matsumoto hadn't expected it either because he was entertaining himself with a rather long string of epithets which ended in, "...fucking idiot." Whoever that last one was reserved for, Kubota didn't know. Or maybe he did and just couldn't quite bring himself to admit it.  
  
  
***  
  
They were alone now, the two of them. Kubota and Matsumoto playing doctor and patient in the snow like nursery school children. The music that was once in the distance had long faded and the sunset that was once so brilliant had diminished completely, leaving behind nothing more than a dead black sky.  
  
"Who was that jerk?" Matsumoto had finally decided to ask through chattering teeth, enduring the weather as Kubota bound his bare arm with the insistence that the cold helped the clotting.   
  
He assumed that Matsumoto was talking about Tokitoh. "Middle school kid, our grade, different school." was the short explanation as Kubota perused the injury. A superficial cut. He had apparently underestimated the length of the blade by about a millimeter.  
  
"And he just left?"  
  
"I asked him to, but before going he gave me a handkerchief so I could temporarily patch you up. I'll replace it with a real bandage once we get to my house. He felt bad about the whole thing though."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I feel bad about it." Kubota bit his lip and avoided his friend's eyes. "The whole thing."  
  
"Mmh." the smaller of the two cringed as the cloth was tightly knotted in one swift jerk.   
  
Matsumoto felt numb and dazed. But who wouldn't be after getting knifed by a stranger and --- by a best friend? There was really no word that could do justice to that revelation. He knew what just happened, something just so irreversible that there wasn't any point in wasting energy in categorizing the act.   
  
Just barely noticing Kubota slip his jacket back over him, he allowed the display of care. Last time, probably, he thought morosely as Kubota put a cold hand on his equally cold cheek in an ineffective attempt to warm his face. Then...one last time, however vain.   
  
He wrapped his good arm around Kubota's neck to pull him close. Got exactly what he expected. Icy lips that perhaps wouldn't ever warm up to him again. But he still held the kiss, feeling foolish for being the only one of the two holding on.  
  
Love is an exercise in futility after all...  
  
And Kubota just let himself get kissed. He owed Matsumoto at least that much. 


End file.
